You have bent your shoulders/
To hold the weight of the world/
You will surely shatter/
Nathan made it into the apartment a few steps ahead of the SWAT team—they'd tried very hard to make him stay out of the building, but he'd informed them with icy, politics-born firmness that his brother was up there, possibly being murdered, and he would be damned if he was going to sit around doing nothing. Now, he'd almost wished he had; the sight of Sylar pulling his brother's limp, bloody form out of a pile of rubble was nearly enough to make his heart trip-hammer itself into an early death.
The SWAT team burst into the room behind him, training their guns on Sylar and demanding loudly that he step away from Peter. The man's head snapped up to them, surprised, angry at the interruption, pupils dilated so wide that his eyes appeared shark-black. He didn't release his hold on Peter's collar, and the SWAT team was apparently not inclined to give him a second chance—they pushed past Nathan, took swift aim, and shot. Sylar dropped Peter as the bullets bit into his chest, and Nathan's familial sensibilities screamed to see his brother crumple brokenly onto the bricks, wanting to go to him but not daring, not while Sylar was still on the scene, stumbling back from the impact of the gunshots.
Astoundingly, he was still alive, still standing, even, after taking what had surely been half a dozen bullets. However, the SWAT team didn't have time to ponder a strategy in which guns were not the solution—he scrambled over the ruins of the apartment and out the fallen back wall, disappearing into the next room with half the team hot on his heels. Nathan went straight to Peter, dropping to his knees and pulling Peter off the destroyed wall, checking for a pulse (yes), checking if he was okay (no). His body showed a dark chart of damage, cuts and bruises, mainly on his head, shoulders, and chest, which had taken the brunt of the room's collapse. His right wrist was swollen and oddly twisted--Nathan was only a lawyer, but he knew it was broken, and from the blood on Peter's mouth, he figured there was probably some internal bleeding as well.
"You," he snapped at one of the SWAT men who had stayed behind. "Get a doctor."
"What?" the man asked confusedly, thrown by the order delivered with such brusque surety from a person he didn't know.
"I said, get a doctor!" Nathan yelled, causing the man to jump and hurry out of the room.
Nathan cradled Peter's unresponsive form in his arms, wishing he knew how to pray. "Come on, Pete," he murmured. "Stay with me, man. I need you. You're the only part of our family that was ever any good. If you die, we're all going to hell." He pushed the hair back from Peter's face, brushing it away from a scar he didn't remember, a white line slashing down into his eyebrow.
In the back of his head, from the corner where he'd exiled the politician part of himself, a voice cut in. Maybe it would be better if he died. He studiously ignored the thought, but it was no use—he'd let the shameful-but-necessary part of him get too strong lately, with the election coming so close. He's always causing trouble anyway, he's got a talent for making a scene at the exact worst moment. The headlines would be spectacular: Congressional Candidate's Brother Murdered by Serial Killer. There's no publicity like sensationalism.
He bent his head over Peter, determinedly quashing the insidious thoughts. He needed Peter. Peter was his soul, and possibly the only person in the world who loved him unconditionally, without strings or fine print. He would not let his brother die.
As if prompted by that thought, Peter suddenly surged to life, shaking but conscious and getting blood all over Nathan's expensive suit. Then, as he bent double, coughs tearing through his body, he began suddenly, miraculously healing. Nathan blinked twice to be sure that those long campaign hours hadn't finally gotten to him, but the sight didn't change—Peter's cuts were pulling themselves together and disappearing, bruises fading into healthy skin.
After his initial reaction ("thank God") his scandal-honed instincts prompted him to grab Peter and pull him into a hug, effectively blocking him from the rest of the room.
"Nathan—what—?" Peter said confusedly.
"Don't move, Pete," Nathan whispered without changing his expression. "I'm hiding you until you stop looking like a really good subject for scientific testing, okay?"
Peter glanced down at his disappearing injuries. "Oh—right." He returned the hug, wrapping his arms around Nathan and burying his head in his shoulder as he hadn't done since he was seven. Nathan felt a sudden upsurge of protectiveness, flashing back to the days when Peter was always getting bullied and he was always saving him. In a way, he thought, it was happening all over again, and he was surprised to find that he still felt it was his job to stand between Peter and the world. Twenty-six years old, he thought wryly, and Peter was still getting bullied.
The SWAT man he'd sent off came back into the room, followed by a harassed-looking team of emergency medics. Looking proud at having accomplished his mission, the man pointed them in Nathan's direction, but he waved them away with his best 120-watt smile.
"Sorry to have bothered you," he said, charmingly apologetic. "I thought my brother was hurt, but as you can see, he's fine." Peter gave them a smile and a wave, demonstrating his 'fine'-ness on Nathan's cue. "I just saw blood and overreacted, you know how it is. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."
Annoyance soothed by his deft charisma, the medics filed back out of the room, and Nathan breathed an unobtrusive sigh of relief through his teeth.
"Well, that takes care of that," he said, helping Peter to his feet. "We're going home."
"'We'?" Peter questioned. Nathan had never liked Peter's apartment, accustomed as he was to courtrooms and penthouses. For years, he'd been trying to persuade Peter to let him find something else, but Peter knew better than to take anything from his brother. With Nathan, everything had strings, hooks—even love.
"Oh, we're not going back to that rat hole you call an apartment," Nathan said authoritatively, taking Peter's elbow and steering him towards the door. "You're coming to stay with me and Heidi."
"Nathan—" he protested.
"I'm not asking you, Pete, I'm telling you," Nathan said shortly. "I do not trust law enforcement to get that psycho, and as long as he's loose, I need you where I can keep you alive."
All the fight went out of Peter as the last hour came slamming back to him, and suddenly he was shaking, breathing too fast. "Whoa," Nathan said, alarmed. "Stay with me, man, you're going into shock." He thought about calling the medics back, but instead he walked faster, feeling that everything would be all right if he could just get home.